


Migration of the Moth

by FromAnonymousToZ



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: A Kiss, Esoteric flirting, Flirting, M/M, Moths, Short & Sweet, The migratory patterns of the unknown's moths, mentions of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29960100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAnonymousToZ/pseuds/FromAnonymousToZ
Summary: The winter wood is known for many things, from its cold temperatures to its odd citizens, its unforgiving wilds, and oil warped wildlife, and of course, its charming warden.But none of those things come to mind when Enoch thinks of the winter thicket.Well, perhaps the warden, but it was hardly fair to count the Beast. He was such a fascinating creature, after all.No, when Enoch thought of the winter wood, he thought of the moths.
Relationships: The Beast/Enoch (Over the Garden Wall)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	Migration of the Moth

The winter wood is known for many things, from its cold temperatures to its odd citizens, its unforgiving wilds, and oil warped wildlife, and of course, its charming warden. 

But none of those things come to mind when Enoch thinks of the winter thicket. 

Well, perhaps the warden, but it was hardly fair to count the Beast. He was such a fascinating creature, after all. 

No, when Enoch thought of the winter wood, he thought of the moths.

Now, Enoch was inclined to believe moths were relatively solitary creatures, but the winter wood hosted a plethora of evidence to the contrary. 

Most of the moths from the winter wood were drab brown colored creatures, with interesting eye-like patterns decorating their wings, but among them, there were occasional flashes of bright coloring like pinks and yellows and reds and greens.

They were dark and unassuming with flashes of color.

Rather like the Beast.

They were just a thought at the corner of the mind most days, occasionally emerging from the winter wood and eating crops or worse, Enoch’s maypole.

But once every handful of decades, the things would swarm. 

In huge numbers, they would pass over Pottsfield, blotting out the sun for days at a time, their wings a thunderous roar as the strange creatures made their migration over Pottsfield, over the mountains, over the sea to the winter lands separated by summer’s sea. 

It started at dawning, the distant roaring din of millions of wings beating together, then the covering of the winter wood seemed to ripple as a dark cloud of moths roamed the land. They flew high in the air, above even the maypole’s head, only a few hundred dropping out at any given time to rest their wings and linger in Pottsfield before returning to the sky. 

Slowly, they would unfurl across the blue of the sky like a vast cloak draped over the town, capturing the sun in their beating wings, plunging Pottsfield into the dark of night at the height of noon.

They would continue their migration for 3, sometimes 4 days, before the sun and sky would once more peer from between those numerous wings. 

The Beast rarely visited during the migrations, too busy directing it, Enoch suspects, but he is truly a sight when he does. 

Enoch is torn from his thoughts as the moths, like a frothing sea just above his head, seem to peel down, swirling through the maypole’s ribbons. 

He swats at them half-heartedly but knows he will lose a few ribbons to their ravenous hunger regardless of his attempts. 

He sighs frustratedly. He was constantly losing ribbons to winter these days.

A low chuckle draws his attention from the moths currently making a buffet out of his vessel and to the winter warden, approaching slowly from the wood. 

The Beast doesn't often visit Pottsfield in the height of day, the light too taxing on his shadows, but he strides easily towards the border, the swirling mass of moths fluttering overhead going a long way in turning day to night.

Enoch takes a moment to swoon at the sight. 

The Beast’s furs are a collage of moving wings and twitching antennae as the moths cling to him, turning his fur into a living patchwork of wings. Occasionally they drop off and flutter away, only for their spot to be taken by one of the many fluttering creatures hanging about the Beast. They writhe across his furs, turning him into a rippling thing of eyes and patterns. 

Enoch feels a throng of jealousy at how close the moths are allowed to get to the ever hostile winter warden but crushes it in favor of dragging his eyes from the Beast’s furs to his face, which is also obscured by fluttering wings. 

They crawl across his face, their wings spanning wide like a mask in some strange masquerade across his face. The piercing colors of the Beast’s eyes flit through his living veil as the moths flutter their wings.

They like his eyes, the Beast had once told him. 

Enoch grins wryly, the maypole’s face twisting. He can’t blame them. 

Enoch also supposes that that's the lantern hanging from his antlers, but it's so covered in moths there is no indication of what is underneath.

“Greetings, Harvest Lord,”

“Hello, little moth.” He purrs.

“Hmm, I wonder,” The Beast drawls slowly, bringing up his hands to tap at his chin as if thoughtfully, his claws carefully avoiding the delicate wings framing his shadowy face. The Beast had over the years adopted a few mortal gestures, which he used almost exclusively around Pottsfielders. Though he had taken a particular liking to using them when he was mocking or teasing Enoch. “Where on earth could you have come up with such a title….” 

“Hm, I haven’t any clue,” Enoch hums back sweetly. A ribbon moves to caress the Beast’s shoulder, but he holds up a single clawed hand, gesturing for Enoch to stop. 

“I do not recommend touching me.” 

“Oh?” Enoch asks but halts his advancement.

The moths flutter around the Beast, pale wood-colored wings and shadow intermingling. 

“The moths would gladly eat away your fabric. And it would be fitting, winter cannibalizing autumn.” 

“Oh, now that doesn't sound so bad to me, dear.” Enoch teases.

“It figures that you, of all creatures, would find some delight in the idea of cannibalism.”

Enoch clucks. 

“Oh, I can think of some positively cannibalistic things I’d like to do to you, Hope Eater.” Innuendo positively drips from his voice. 

The mask of wings about the warden’s face flicker, and blue gleams through, entire body taught leaning towards Enoch. The Beast restrains himself, and Enoch huffs. If only his Beast was not so composed. 

“Nevertheless,” The Beast murmurs, voice strained. “I do not believe it would be wise.”

“Oh, what's a little cannibalism between friends.” Enoch teases, waving a ribbon idly. 

“I don’t want to meet any of the friends you have if that’s your idea of friendship, Harvest Lord.” The Beast murmurs, voice nearly drowned out by the thunderous drumming of the wings. 

“Oh, perhaps you’re right. Cannibalism is a dreadfully intimate affair. Friend might be the wrong word. Perhaps you’d prefer the term lover? If it suits your fancy, I can call you anything, my dear.”

“Just the Beast is fine.” He drawls dryly, and Enoch chuckles. 

“I don’t suppose I can tempt you to cross my borders for an evening, can I, Sugar?” 

“I’m afraid not, Harvest Lord,” The Beast replies evenly. “I must attend to the migration.” 

Enoch pulls the maypole into as much of a pout as he can manage. 

“What a shame,” He purrs. “Perhaps another night,” 

“Indeed. I must be off now. I only came to greet you, King of the Stalks.” 

“Feel free to come and greet me any time,” Enoch croons. “I suppose I shall simply have to let you go, despite how it pains me.” Enoch feigns swooning. 

The Beast chuckles and then turns to leave before pausing. Enoch leans forward curiously as the Beast turns, eyes blazing blue beneath the patchwork mask, reaching out towards the maypole.

A claw-tipped hand catches one of his ribbons to bring it to a pantomime of a kiss. 

The Beast laughs against the ribbon at the way Enoch positively melts, and the sound travels up through the fabric to the maypole's head, making Enoch's world seem fuzzy and sweet in a way that makes him coo. 

The Beast releases the ribbon with a chuckle at Enoch's expense and departs into the shadow of the wood, swallowed by the thrum of moths roaring out of it.

Enoch is so tickled by the gesture he doesn’t even realize that the moths have devoured the fringes of his ribbon until the Beast is long gone.


End file.
